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was deafening。
After nearly fifteen minutes of peering around； being careful not to
wander too far from the aspiring Secret Service agent； a rather
ordinary…looking girl in a long navy dress crossed the massive foyer
and walked toward me。 I was surprised that someone with a job as
glamorous as hers （working in the special events office of the
museum） could be so plain； and I felt instantly ridiculous； like a
girl from a small town trying to dress for a big…city black…tie
affair—which； ironically enough； was exactly who I was。 Ilana； on
the other hand； looked like she hadn’t even bothered to change out
of work clothes； and I learned later that she hadn’t。
“Why bother？” She’d laughed。 “It’s not like these people are here to
look at me。” Her brown hair was clean and straight but lacking in
style； and her brown flats were horrifically unfashionable。 But her
blue eyes were bright and kind； and I knew instantly that I would
like her。
“You must be Ilana；” I said； sensing that I somehow had seniority in
the situation and was expected to take charge。 “I’m Andrea。 I’m
Miranda’s assistant； and I’m here to help in any way I can。”
She looked so relieved； I instantly wondered what Miranda had said
to her。 The possibilities were endless； but I imagined it had
something to do with Ilana’sLadies’Home Journal getup。 I shuddered
to think what wicked thing she’d uttered to such a sweet girl and
prayed she wouldn’t start to cry。 Instead； she turned to me with
those big innocent eyes； leaned forward； and declared
none…too…quietly； “Your boss is a first…rate bitch。”
I stared； shocked； for just a moment before recovering。 “She is；
isn’t she？” I said； and we both laughed。 “What do you need me to do？
Miranda’s going to be able to sense that I’m here in about ten
seconds； so I should look like I’m doing something。”
“Here； I’ll show you the table；” she said； walking down a darkened
hallway toward the Egyptian exhibits。 “It’s dynamite。”
We arrived in a smaller gallery； perhaps the size of a tennis court
with a rectangular； twenty…four…seat table stretched down the
middle。 Robert Isabell was worth it； I could see。 He was the New
York party planner； the only one who could be trusted to strike just
the right note with astonishing attention to detail： fashionable
without being trendy； luxe but not ostentatious； unique without
being over the top。 Miranda insisted that Robert do everything； but
the only time I’d ever seen his work before was at Cassidy and
Caroline’s birthday party。 I knew he could manage to turn Miranda’s
colonial…style living room into a chic downtown lounge （plete
with soda bar—in martini glasses； of course—ultra…suede； built…in
banquettes； and a fully heated； tented balcony dance floor with a
Moroccan theme） for ten…year…olds； but this was truly spectacular。
Everything glowed white。 Light white； smooth white； bright white；
textured white； and rich white。 Bundles of milky white peonies
looked as if they grew from the table itself； deliciously lush but
low enough to allow people to talk over them。 Bone white china （with
a white checked pattern） rested on a crisp white linen tablecloth；
and high…backed white oak chairs were covered in luscious white
suede （the danger！）； all atop a plush white carpet； specially laid
for the evening。 White votive candles in simple white porcelain
holders gave off a soft white light； highlighting （but somehow not
burning） the peonies from underneath and providing subtle；
unobtrusive illumination around the table。 The only color in the
entire room came from the elaborate multihued canvases that hung on
the walls surrounding the table； shocking blues and greens and golds
from the depictions of early Egyptian life。 The white table as a
deliberate contrast to the priceless； detailed paintings was
exquisite。
As I turned my head around to take in the wonderful contrast of the
color and the white （“That Robert really is a genius！”）； a vibrant
red figure caught my eye。 In the corner； standing ramrod straight
under a looming painting was Miranda； wearing the beaded red Chanel
that had been missioned； cut； fitted； and precleaned just for
tonight。 And although it’d be a stretch to say that it had been
worth every penny （since those pennies added up to tens of thousands
of dollars）； she did look breathtaking。 She herself was anobjet
d’art； chin jutted upward and muscles perfectly taut； a neoclassical
relief in beaded Chanel silk。 She wasn’t beautiful—her eyes were a
bit too beady and her hair too severe and her face much too hard—but
she was stunning in a way I couldn’t make sense of； and no matter
how hard I tried to play it cool； to pretend to be admiring the
room； I couldn’t take my eyes off her。
As usual； the sound of her voice broke my reverie。 “Ahn…dre…ah； you
do know the names and faces of our guests this evening； do you not？
I assume you have properly studied their portraits。 I expect you
won’t humiliate me tonight by failing to greet someone by name；” she
announced； looking nowhere； with only my name indicating that her
words might somehow be directed toward me。
“Um； yes； I’ve got it covered；” I answered； suppressing the urge to
salute and still acutely aware that I was staring。 “I’ll take a few
minutes now and make sure I’m positive。” She looked at me as if to
sayYou sure will； you idiot； and I forced myself to look away and
walk out of the gallery。 Ilana was right behind me。
“What’s she talking about？” she whispered； leaning toward me。
“Portraits？ Is she crazy？”
We sat down on an unfortable wooden bench in a darkened hallway；
both of us overwhelmed with the need to hide。 “Oh； that。 Yeah；
normally I would’ve spent the last week trying to find pictures of
the guests tonight and memorizing them so I could greet them by
name；” I explained to a horrified Ilana。 She stared at me
incredulously。 “But since she just told me I had to e today； I
only had a few minutes in the car to look them over。
“What？” I asked。 “You thinkthis is strange？ Whatever。 It’s standard
stuff for a Miranda party。”
“Well； I thought there wouldn’t be anyone famous here tonight；” she
said； referring to Miranda’s past parties at the Met。 Since she was
a huge contributor； Miranda was often granted the very special
privilege of renting out； oh； THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART for
private parties and cocktail hours。 Mr。 Tomlinson had had to ask
only once； and Miranda was scrambling to make her brother…in…law’s
party the best the Met had ever seen。 She figured it would impress
the rich Southerners and their trophy wives to dine for a night at
th